


The Fallen Rises

by Ooze



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, for main game and Vergil's Downfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooze/pseuds/Ooze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything that he's gone through, he discovers renewed purpose, and now knows what he wants more than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fallen Rises

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't really do research, and I don't have every detail of the game/DLC engraved in my memory. I really hope I did all right with this; I don't want to do the game or its characters any injustice since it doesn't appear to be liked very much. I hope this is decent enough!

The place was definitely not like he remembered it—not like how he wanted to remember it. But he remembered how he'd left it, though in pieces—much like the state it was currently in; broken up, torn up, a dirty, chaotic mess. Some of the walls, the contents of the building remained somewhat intact. He recognized them. Felt a touch of nostalgia.

It seemed that no one bothered to clear the wreckage. What he had worked so long to build was destroyed in a matter of minutes. And he'd done it himself—the decision was his own. And had anyone cared to at least throw the remnants away? It remained where it always stood, when it was once proud, but now a graveyard. A grim reminder.

_Things went wrong_.

But _things_ always turned around. He remembered that his work was not lost in vain. He remembered he would have sacrificed her life, not believing she was salvageable, if he'd followed his own path. But no lives were lost. He wouldn't have had that outcome if—

He remembered the betrayal. Old resentment crept back as he remembered their final moments together. This was no good. He walked deeper into what was now a ruin, a relic. At least, to him, a relic it had become. Just an old thing, dusty and worthless, but worth just a little in terms of sentimentality.

But how sentimental was he? Not very. He hardened himself, thinking it wise. And after everything that passed, he'd hardened even more. What was his heart? but only a muscle that kept his cold blood flowing—nothing more.

He didn't care. He resolved not to care.

Things had changed so much in so little time.

_People change_.

The rough tiled floors beneath his feet were the most intact. He walked across a good portion of them, remembering when he used to walk the same floors and hallways a time ago. He could almost imagine the upright, gray architecture that safeguarded him. He had no security now.

He wondered for a moment if anyone had noticed him. Well, all the worse for them if they had. He would give no one the time of the day. No one deserved it, he thought. And thinking back, he was a fool for expending himself for others, once believing they were worth it. He exhaled a breath with a touch of sardonic amusement. Only he mattered to himself. He realized that too late.

The great walls had crumbled down. He was exposed, the wind in his face and dragging toward him that earthy smell he'd come to dislike. The smell of the earth, of the world and the animals that inhabited it. The smell of life itself.

Where he'd been, the smell of death was a constant and soon became a part of his life—if his was even considered _life_ anymore. Was he living?

Nonetheless, it was… welcome. Even he thought that was off, but it was all he had and all he knew, and he would gladly take it over the scent that brought memories too bitter for him to stomach.

_Better off without it_.

He was never human to begin with. This place was never meant for him. He had to leave soon.

Then he stumbled onto the space where he spent most of his days and nights. The air was different. Still smelled of earth, but carried new yet too familiar sensations with it. He grimaced in response. This was no good; not the same. It shouldn't be. He paced around as his eyes darted from here to there, remembering exactly the placement of the things he used to keep in that space. They were all gone by now, destroyed beyond salvation.

He remembered the many monitors, the numerous books, the personal curios scattered in places which were hard to notice. Funny—he remembered those easily.

And his throne—a chair, really, but he liked to believe—at the center of the room, behind his workspace. That had all but vanished. He saw the remains of his elaborate seat on the floor, turned to dust, chips, and chunks. He could hardly make it out anymore. A piece of the fabric lay among the rubble, color dulled beyond recognition, but of course he remembered it vividly, and he saw these details in the mess. He used to sit there. He used to rule.

Well, he sort of does now. Actually, he's more _acknowledged_ than _admired_. But admiration was never a goal; only respect.

It was respect he wanted, and instead he was rejected and banished. He was _disrespected_ , shown the door, and forced out. But he came back: back through the door that was shut behind him, if only briefly. He hadn't intended to stay— _no, n_ _ot now_ —but only meant to assess the state of things.

_Putrid_.

This place meant nothing to him. He should hope that it never would; he'd hate to have the feelings from before. To think: feelings! No, not from him. More like sensations that bounced off his surroundings, rebounded off him, then dispersed into the atmosphere, disappearing. He observed, no more.

But it was hard sometimes.

For all that he'd done to kill his heart, he knew he was not a simple amoeba. He lived and breathed, saw and understood, reasoned and, ultimately, felt. The ability to reason went hand in hand with the ability to feel. Sensitivity and coherence were two sides of the same coin, whether he wanted to accept that or not. After all, his emotions influenced his principles, and that drove him down the path he'd taken. He was in the position he now found himself because of those feelings; those feelings which he deemed unnecessary and intrusive. They defined him.

To rid himself of what little emotion he had left, however shallow or fleeting they had been, would practically destroy his individuality. He just wouldn't be himself if he did. He would have to die. Truthfully, he felt like he had already.

He'd been through death, and he'd come back from it. He wouldn't die again.

As far as he knew, it was the rest who died. In the figurative sense, he killed them off. He didn't need them. He'd used them, it all backfired, and he cast them away. Once used, they became useless.

He wasn't aware that he'd been gritting his teeth at the time.

_Dead. All of them._

But he liked it that way. The solitude appealed to him. He liked himself as he was. He liked Vergil—full demon, with assets of angel; son of no one, brother of nobody.

Only Vergil to worry about and nothing more.

And all this power he'd found— earned. It was _good_. Who could deny such a feeling? Who'd want anything else? It was sweet, addicting, and he wanted more. There was nothing better in the world. _Nothing_. No one.

He firmed his grip around the scabbard he held beside him. Ah, of course. He'd forgotten—Yamato. The only material thing that really mattered to him, the sword which made him whole. As far back as he could remember, it was a piece of him. He was sure part of him even lived within. There was no need for solitude. With Yamato, he was calm. Yamato made him Vergil.

_Only Yamato_.

He'd forgotten how quickly time on human ground tended to pass. He was surprised that he'd even been standing there for so long to begin with. Believing enough of his time was wasted, he gradually retraced his steps. He'd frowned when he took one last look at the rubble and the dust that collected in what was once something of a stately room. It was all stupid to him now, and he felt foolish for ever having visited. The memories that were refreshed were unpleasant, but he never expected to feel _good_ about them anyway.

He paused once he cleared the remains of the tiled flooring. What was left to do? He was here now, back on earth; all he had to do was take his pick. None of his options appealed to him, though. It was uncomfortable enough to exist in the same city where he felt the extension of his blood lingering. Staying any longer would be a mistake.

So it was decided then and there. He walked off, intending to leave, but to not return to where he'd come from. His path was unclear, but he was already planning ahead. For the time being, he would stay out of Limbo City.

He had a right to this world: it was his, in one way or another, and he would make it _his_ alone. Just Vergil's world.

Yes, he was bitter. So very bitter.

_I'm not finished here_.


End file.
